That night Jonesy gets out of her bed, crawls across the floor and gets into mine.
‘Budge up,’ she whispers. I move over and she gets under the blankets. ‘Know what I’ve been thinking, Les?’
‘Usually never.’
‘We can sort this. And we have to sort this, find out who killed Jane and Sally, otherwise we might be next. The polis dinnae know whit goes on round here, not really. That means we’ve got a head start. You could work out who did it. You just work out who knows them both and it’s probably them, right?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘No, not necessarily, but still probably, aye? If we found out who could have done it, Lesley? If we found that out, we could work it out?’
‘Mibbie.’
‘Aye, mibbie. And mibbie I could sleep in here with you tonight?’
‘Away yerself.’
‘But I’m scared, Les, I’m s-s-s-scared and you can keep me safe.’
I know she’s joking but I let her stay. Sometimes I let her stay, sometimes I don’t. The benefit of her staying is that it’s nice and warm and there’s someone to hold. The problem is it’s a bit squashed and she gets ‘the jumps’ in the night. This is when for no reason she suddenly starts to jerk in a dream, and it wakes you up, but never her, and it drives me crazy.
She falls asleep quickly. I lie awake for a while wondering who knew both girls, and that if they struck again it would be bad for the Homes but easier to work out. That is a horrible thought; the more girls die, the easier it should be to find out who killed them.
Are we bait? Is that what the police do, wait for something like this to solve itself by letting more people die and getting more clues?
This is my last thought as I fall asleep.